To Dispel My Nightmares
by Missing Triforce
Summary: In which Sherlock & John help each other deal with their respective night terrors.  A touch of angst but then gets FLUFFY! Warning for SLASH. Please R&R!
1. Part 1: John

**'Ello poppets! How are you doing? This fic is dedicated to all the fanfic authors out there who basically have John and Sherlock running through hell and back and having us viewers enjoying practically every minute of it. The following is meant to be the aftermath of such exploits: after all the dust settles, Sherlock and John still have each other (in most cases) and will get through it. With perhaps a few bumps in the road. :)**

**Please, please, please, PLEASE with a pink phone and Sherlock's scarf on top review this one. Tell me if it's good, bad, ugly, what your favorite tea is or who's your favorite pairing for this fandom. Are John & Sherlock in character? Does this story need more of a resolution or do you like the ending? Keep in mind there's a part 2 coming down the tracks (and hopefully no dead Bruce-Partington Plans guy on the back. Teehee!)**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

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><p><em>To Dispel My Nightmares: A BBC<em> Sherlock _Fanfic_

_Part 1: John_

He woke up to whimpering noises behind him and immediately jumped out of their shared bed. Damn it. He had left it downstairs: he'd been playing it earlier in an effort to think through a case. Not caring that he was only wearing boxer shorts in their freezing flat, he raced down the hall, his warm feet shocked by and pattering down the chilled steps of the stairs in a matter of seconds. He skidded through the kitchen, feeling the chill turn to a burn on his feet, and launched himself over the coffee table strewn with paper to where his violin case lay, instrument inside. He clicked open the case, grabbed the violin's thin neck and the bow before running back to the bedroom to see John in violent REM sleep, his eyes shooting from side to side underneath his eyelids.

John's breath was coming in little pops as his throat constricted in sleep apnea. He was beginning to shake his shoulders back and forth too, and Sherlock could see his arm muscles twitching under the sheet that covered him: the violin was almost too late. Shit. As he placed the instrument to his chin and set the bow in place, John started saying his name in little gasps: "Sher...Sher-Sh-Sherlock." Sherlock gritted his teeth. It was severe this time.

In agitation, he struck the first notes of Bach, and John rolled his torso unconsciously over to Sherlock's half of the bed, his face downturned into the mattress and his left arm groping for the body that usually lay there. The detective swayed over to the bed and sat on its edge, willing the music to roll over them both like waves, feeling John's clammy hand grasp at his hip. Sherlock forced his body to relax, letting his un-occupied shoulder drop. It had worked before and surely...Suddenly, John stilled, and Sherlock noted a hitch in John's breathing. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock sighed. John's breath was slow and labored now, his chest heaving up and down to gulp down air that his throat had previously denied him. Sherlock felt the hand on his hip give a more conscious grip and turned a bit to see the back of the blonde head mushed with the scatter of sheets and blanket, the slight sheen of sweat across John's exposed and bare back in addition to the incriminating wetness near where his face now lay-tears.

What had John's unconscious done to him? This man, who could face the barrel of a gun, be kidnapped by psychopaths, and chase danger halfway across London without bating an eye was reduced to this position of utter weakness by the mere fancy and figment of his own buried thoughts. Sure, he had dreams from Afghanistan before (before everything really), but this new set of dreams were different.

They'd started months after Sherlock had come back from the dead during which period both John and he had slept better than either had in the past three years. But now, after this last string of cases, John had these nightmares almost weekly. Sherlock had been threatened severe bodily harm a bit more than usual, but was that a cause for John to go into almost single-minded rage over Sherlock's attacker at each instance? He had never done that before. Noooo. Seeing red and committing questionable almost homicides in response to his companion being threatened was much more Sherlock's department. It had happened a few times. Each time only John's repeated assurances of his well-being and once a very distracting kissing of Sherlock's mouth had made the detective stop trying to make the attacker wish they had never felt the sunshine of this earth.

A tug backward on his hip brought him back to the present reality. He zinged off a final note of the song, but John didn't look at him, only rolled back to his side of the bed. Laying the violin carefully on the floor, Sherlock slipped under the sheets, faced John's tense back, and waited.

John rolled again to face him. Eyes downcast, he ran his hand through his short hair and let out a long breath. His wedding band glinted in the incoming faint streetlight. Something popped into Sherlock's head: "'To run my fingers through her hair,/ To tie a lover's knot past dreamt./ To kiss away strands falling rain/ and whisper secret warmths of heart.'"

"Where's that from?" John's voice was a bit rough from sleep and croaky from the nightmare. It was still thermal music to Sherlock all the same.

"A poem from somewhere. Might have been the last case."

"You haven't managed to delete it?"

"Apparently not."

John chuckled, but then: "I'm sorry."

Sherlock cocked his head in analysis, his eyes skittering across John's form in bed. Shoulders tense. Breathing shallow but steady. Left hand not trembling. Legs lying as normal, the right not bent up in pain. But not meeting Sherlock's eyes: legitimately ashamed, but feeling no anger. Just a determination to be brave. His soldier seemed to never stop being one, facing the loneliness, facing the pain, facing all the things Sherlock and the world could ever throw at him.

"It is in no way your fault. I should have never left you," he said. He reached across the no man's land in the middle of the bed and took the back of John's head. John was always so pleasantly warm compared to Sherlock, and Sherlock dug his fingertips into John's scalp before leaning forward and gently bringing John's head up to catch him in a soft kiss. John was so kissable after all. Warm lips, soft puddy skin, lines everywhere to explore and fall in, and eyes a curious mix of blue-brown, the tiny reflected Sherlock's sky and earth.

"Mmmm," John said eloquently, and he inched closer to Sherlock, bringing up his own hand to run it through his companion's curls. The kiss deepened to taste of pillows and warm blankets and John & Sherlock and Sherlock & John and very, very faintly of last night's mint tea.

John broke the contact off, breathing heavily due to his need for air. Their foreheads were together, and Sherlock was pleased to observe that whatever oxygen John was breathing out he was most likely breathing in. He whispered, "But I'm here now. We're alive now."

In response, John scooted even closer to Sherlock, wrapping his arms around him and nuzzling his face into the detective's chest. The gesture seemed to fill every cold space in Sherlock's body, heating him up like he never could on his own. The detective hugged John back and exaggerated his breathing. In. Out. In. Out. John started to match him, lungful for lungful. Slowly John's became deeper and deeper and Sherlock could feel his eyelashes fluttering against his chest: sleep. Deep enough not to dream. Sherlock kissed the top of John's head, weaved his fingers into the short blond strands, and tried to tangle their legs further together. His warm John. John sputtered awake.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmmmm?" His voice was more of a deep rumble than coherent words. He was too comfortable right now for words, entwined with his own personal heaven.

"Don't ever leave." John said quietly, his voice muted by Sherlock's proximity. "I need you to be here. Not feeling you here: that was frightening."

"I thought you were asleep then?"

"I was. That was the dream."

Sherlock's grip on his Watson tightened.

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><p><strong>Chapter 2 (where Sherlock's the one with the nightmare) will be up momentarily. I just can't seem to get these boys sleepingdreaming/waking up outta my head! Don't worry-I'm concerned about my sanity too. But I love them to bits! Conundrums.**

**Again, please review. Your opinion matters to me!**


	2. Part 2: Sherlock

**WOW. Just...WOW. THANK YOU FOR ALL THE PHANTASMIC SUPPORT for all those you reviewed (just fyi**

**elfmaiden4legs, mustangwoman, Lanshannarra, northerlywind, Handful of Silence, Shizuku Tsukishima749 are splenfierious people), story alerted, AND/OR favorited. That's incredible! You all make me so happy! :D**

**Even specialer props to northerlywind who doesn't really read slash, but read this anyway. And then pointed out that John has a psychosomatic limp in this RIGHT leg, not his left. Thank you.**

**Anyway, please enjoy part 2 with (slightly random) poetic intro!**

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><p><em>Part 2: Sherlock<em>

_Beyond the comfort of your arms_

_is a dark road to travel_

_but come with me_

_and I'll not be_

_alone_

He awoke to movement.

Something besides him was twitching and bumping into his prone form softly. John opened his eyes immediately, fearing what might be happening. At first all he saw was the black shapes and darkness of the ceiling, the window's outside streetlamp barely eeking out any misty amber light. It must be around 2am or so, judging by the dark. When you race across London at all hours of the night, you get good at recognizing what time it is by the level of black.

He turned his head to his side to see the big something twitching next to him was Sherlock. They had originally fallen asleep tangled together, all legs and sheets and boxer shorts and arms, but somehow Sherlock seemed to have kicked free. Lying on his side with his hands tucked underneath his chin, Sherlock had created a centimeter of space between them now, a space he kept crossing with flicks of his fingers, tics of his elbow, spasms of his ankle, and shivers of his head making his sweaty curls slide on the side of John's face.

John felt his eyebrows raise. Since he so rarely stopped enough for a proper sleep, Sherlock was usually like the living dead in true slumber: so still that you almost needed a hand on his heart to assure yourself he was alive. What was going on? John propped himself on his elbow and stroked the damp, dark curls away from Sherlock's pale brow. The other man shivered. A fever...?

"_John_."

The doctor froze and felt the warmth of blood drain from his head and outstretched hand. He had heard that 'John' years ago. It was at the Pool where the mirror of chlorinated water had danced and obscured, shadowed and illuminated in sickly aquamarine Sherlock's white face and round, smokey eyes wide with shock at John's presence wrapped in the winter coat. It had wonder, betrayal, worry, desperation, and most of all confusion contained in those four little letters. It was the most complex way John had heard anyone ever say a single name, let alone his own.

Finally, John's sleep-slowed brain knew.

Nightmare. Sherlock was having a nightmare.

The ex-army medic was swift in action. He scooted his whole body back into Sherlock's space (where it belonged), nuzzling his head in between Sherlock's cooler arms and wrapping his own free upper limb around the taller man's back. He started rubbing soothing swirls into Sherlock's back as he hooked his leg into Sherlock's own. He then whispered into the detective's neck, "Sherlock, I'm here. We're safe. Safe."

John was not expecting Sherlock's reaction.

An electric jolt went through the other man's body. The detective tore out of John's protecting arms and sprang away from his confining legs. In an instant, Sherlock was out of the bed, standing akimbo and staring in wide-eyed wonder. He blinked rapidly in the dark, and his chest heaved into heavy, conscious breath. The coppery light of outside lit his white frame into relief, little wet sprites of misty luminescence dancing on the outline of his exposed neck, shoulders, chest, arms, hands, lower thighs.

John's first thought was that it was unfair how beautiful Sherlock got to be all the time.

Sherlock's eyes must have finally adjusted to the gloom of the room because their laser-focus now rested on John. John saw the skin around them tighten for a fraction of a second as a sign of realization and decision. The deep baritone voice only seemed to confirm John's thought: "I'm sorry to wake you."

John propped himself on his elbow again and tried to hide the tiny twinge of hurt that his attempt to comfort Sherlock had been useless. Sherlock did it so many times for John: it would have been nice to return the favor. "It's all fine." They stayed like that for a minute. As the silence and stillness stretched onto minute two, John asked, "Are you coming back to bed anytime soon?"

Sherlock just nodded and slipped back under the covers, still watching John. John made himself more comfortable and watched him back. "So, was Moriarty blowing me up in your dream?" Sherlock started in surprise, but nodded his head. John sighed. He returned to his former position of entanglement with the detective, the said detective opening his arms to allow the doctor in. "We can't keep thinking like this, you know: worrying that the other is going to be killed. Sleep is good."

"Sleep is boring."

John chuckled. "Yeah, compared to you it is." He leaned back a bit and kissed Sherlock on the nose.

Sherlock chuckled this time and said, "I know something we could do instead of sleeping."

"Sherlock, you've slept a grand total of six hours in the past two days. You need to sleep."

"Dull."

John pretended to swat him, but Sherlock caught his hand before it could connect and then stole a kiss. They tussled about for a bit, blankets being kicked off and tangled with their play. They rolled around each other, but it ended with John sitting on top of Sherlock, comfortably straddling the other man's waist and pinning his wrists to either end of the bed (well, as far as John could reach anyway). "Now that I have you where I want you," John said, as if continuing a conversation from earlier. "Go to sleep."

Sherlock really laughed this time. "With you like that? I think not, Dr. Watson."

John looked down at the man underneath. He took in the quirked smile, the devilish glint in the eyes that smoldered gold in this light, the wild mop of mahogany fallen haphazardly across his brow and the pillows, the stark whiteness of the long neck and delicate strength of the collarbones, the outlined ribs and barely there roundness of his two nipples. He leaned forward, trying to match upper body to upper body, his feet barely sliding to settle around Sherlock's calves.

He felt the taut stomach muscles of his companion underneath his own and relished how the skin seemed to glow against his tan tone. John slid his hands down Sherlock's arms achingly slow, taking time to smooth out each muscle, each lingering scar. He rubbed with his thumbs each inside of Sherlock's elbows, causing the man's whole body to shiver. John gave a kiss more like a blowing of air to Sherlock's mid-sternum, trailing slowly up to the man's throat just as his hands slid to Sherlock's shoulders, up his neck, and behind his head to bury themselves in now dry curls. He tilted Sherlock's head to kiss the jaw and stroked his thumbs against Sherlock's cheekbones. Sherlock sighed in contentment before turning his head into an earned soft kiss: a kiss promising many days, weeks, years like this, just like this, always together in a slow, rough beat.

The kiss ended, and John placed his hands beside Sherlock's head, putting his own head in the niche underneath Sherlock's. He breathed out.

Sherlock sucked in a breath and put his arms down to caress John's back, whirling circles and shapes of his own imagining. John could feel the smooth coolness of Sherlock's hands, which was only interrupted by the hardness of the metal band around his left ring finger.

"I'm here and I love you," John whispered.

Sherlock nodded, his own emotion not to be contained in words.

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><p><strong>Right, so that's as close to porn as I'm ever going to get. :)<strong>

**Thanks for reading! Please please review! Stories get better when there's a review/rewriting. I'm especially interested in your thoughts for this ending.**


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